“Companion” stems from the Latin words com + panis – with and bread – that is, the person you break bread with. I love that, not only because eating together is a joyful part of friendship but also because I am a huge word nerd.

When I learned Count is from the Latin word for companion, I knew I had the perfect title for the voice in my head that tells me to eat when I shouldn’t. I’ve mentioned before that the voice is as tempting as a Latin lover. Thus, the Count. Count Who?

I hateenvy admire the people who don’t have internal, infernal struggles with food – those people who naturally stop before they’re full, who can bypass chocolate altogether or be satisfied with one small piece. I am not one of those people. When I’m feeling good and things are going well, I can pretend to be. I can act like one of those people, but it doesn’t come naturally or easily.

With continued pretending, perhaps healthy eating habits will become habitual and The Count will win only on the most special occasions. Habitual is not the same as natural, but I’ll take it.

My saxophone lessons were going well, until I became determined to learn “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree” and “Jingle Bell Rock” in time for last Christmas. Then, I over-practiced “Tequila.” I ended up with an injured thumb. For real, I have a saxophone injury. Worse even than pausing my musical progression is that my trigger thumb has stopped my knitting. This may not sound like much to a non-knitter, but imagine the one thing you do to relax and de-stress and then imagine being unable to partake in that activity. The hole left behind allows stress and worry to fester, and it’s not as if I need assistance with stress and worry.

So, I decided to train for a half marathon. I figured it would take my mind off my thumb, get me closer to Fit Before 50, and maybe feed my creativity a little.

In the course of training, a foot issue that I’ve had since I was about 20 decided that it had had enough with the relentless pounding of mile after mile. It didn’t hurt while I walked, but it throbbed afterward. The podiatrist I found was kind and snarky at the same time. He suggested that I didn’t HAVE to do this event, but understood when I told him I needed a sense of accomplishment. I didn’t want this to be the Year of Thwarted.

With the decision to continue training, I finally understood the athletes I’ve seen all these years, the ones with braced up knees and taped up whatnots, still pushing through the miles. Sometimes, you just have to finish what you start, even if it’s not a pretty or entirely joyful process. Happily, it didn’t all suck. I discovered new trails, listened to happy music, learned that training alone is fun (no worries about slowing people down when you’re walking sola).

And? I finished. I stuck to my training. I did the half marathon. Faster than I was 17 years ago when I did my first marathon! Nearly 30 minutes faster. It’s probably the end of my walking endurance events, but it’s nice to go out on a high note, instead of surrendering to the thwartedness.

The turtle necklace has done every endurance event with me. I almost quit before my first marathon. My brother in law reminded me of the tortoise and the hare. “Slow & Steady! You’ve got this!” The next day, I went out shopping for Tortuga. My dad said, “I’ll buy it for you, so I can be there with you during your marathon.”

Stay tuned for what I decide to do next (back to swimming? cycling?) and for what I decided to name my demon.

I want to name the demon in my head – to both acknowledge it and diminish its power. I’m not talking a real demon or voices in my head, or anything as schizophrenic as that. I mean the negative thoughts that often spin around like infernal earworms and chant, “Don’t exercise. Just take a nap.” Or “That’s not enough ice cream. Eat more.”

I’m back in a familiar place, but it’s nowhere I want to be. It’s that place where all my pants feel tight, and I feel lethargic.

My weight is cyclical, and it’s creeping upwards. I had been doing really well before my mom passed away. Immediately after, I couldn’t eat at all. Then, I couldn’t stop eating, and I’ve gained back almost all of the 25 pounds I’d lost.

Well-intentioned friends say, “Maybe this is your natural weight.” No. It cannot be. Not because of fashion magazines, but because I don’t feel good here. I know my weight is not healthy, and that if I want to remain vibrant throughout life, I’ve got to be healthier and more vibrant now.

I’ve written about my struggles with my weight before – always with self-effacing humor. But it’s not particularly funny, nor particularly honest to always make a joke of it. It’s serious. Serious as a heart attack. Literally.

I’m thinking of making this quest – my plan to be Fit Before Fifty – a regular feature of this blog. I know the world needs another weight loss blog like I need another scoop of ice cream, but as a writer, I make sense of the world through words. If I can write about this honestly, maybe just maybe I’ll gain some insight and strength in the process.

Some other time I will write the Origin Story of my weight saga. That’s more than I can handle right now. Right now, I need a name. For the demon, remember? I’d suggested “Obesitor,” but Derek said it sounded too much like the cholesterol-lowering drug (my cholesterol is fine, by the way). He offered “Obesitron,” but that sounds like a dumb robot from a 80s flick. No, the voice in my head can be really seductive, like a lover you know is bad news but is so suave and good-looking you can’t resist. Maybe Italian or Spanish?